


Fallen Bird

by zinger17



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Prostitution, Self-Harm, heed the warnings please, this is a dark fic yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinger17/pseuds/zinger17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the Island of the Lost Boys is only the beginning. There are deeper, more lasting ways to lose oneself than by Pan’s hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Bird

Come Lord and Lift  
By T. Merrill

Come Lord, and lift the fallen bird  
Abandoned on the ground;  
The soul bereft and longing so  
To have the lost be found.

The ground tears and bites, ripping at your hands, your sides, your face. You are slamming into the ground, rolling and flipping, blood roaring in your ears, spinning, spinning, spinning until you finally slide to a complete stop. You pant and wheeze, cheek scraped and burning against the dirt, unable to draw a proper breath. The stars that lead you to this place still swirl in dizzying circles, lights dancing and whirling over your head, strange and unfamiliar once again. 

A cruel breeze stirs against your hair, unnatural wind currents shrieking overhead, the malevolent shadow that carried to so far across the sky returning for retribution. Within seconds you’re staggering back up, limbs numb and aching from the icy cold sky, blood dripping, running, running, running like the devil himself is after you. 

A hysterical laugh bubbles up, air you can’t afford to waste punching out in frenzied gulps and gasps, sucking in and out, in and out. Your ragged cape twists behind you, your holey boots pound against the grassy earth as you reel forward, searching unsteadily for cover, anything to shield you from the glowing red eyes ready and ravenous, longing to rip your soul from your fragile, mortal body. 

A line of trees catches your eye and you lunch towards them, desperate for the familiar press of thick foliage crowding you, hemming you in. Your arms shield your face, covering the already raw skin as you crash into the shrubbery, thin branches whipping your sides, slapping your legs, running blindly forward away from the shadow stalking you. The blessed undergrowth suddenly disappears and you fall again, hurtling into the ground. 

The ground is strange, hard and grey and unfamiliar. You look about wildly, panting and heaving, frozen into place despite the danger. 

The noise is a screaming, deafening din. Blazing, unnatural lights flash, blinking and flaring, blinding after so long trapped in the dark. Outlandish monsters, their shapes twisted and bizarre and grotesque, snarl along the lanes, tearing along at shocking speeds. 

But then there is the people. So, so many people rushing along the walkway, stepping around you, over you, eyes straight ahead as though a bloody, battered boy sprawled along the walkway is a common sight in this place. 

They shout and bellow and curse, blending together into riotous racket no ear could comprehend. The alien blasting, hooting, and growling coming from all sides builds and builds and builds, until you can no longer stand it. 

Lunging off to the side, you scramble into the entrance of a long, dark tunnel. Someplace to hunker down, you think frantically, someplace to hide. The shame of running, of cowering like a wounded animal has long since dulled, the bravo that came so easily before washed away in the face of so many years of torment. Huge walls hem you in on either side, towering up far into the sky, higher than you ever would have thought possible. 

Crouching behind a broken crate, you shiver with the cold and the shock, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively and rocking.

You don’t look down at the tears and the blood. You don’t think about what you lost. You don’t wonder in what world you’ve landed this time. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. 

….

There is no accursed magic, Dark or Light, plaguing this land, thank the gods. No fairies or wizards or warlords to watch out for, to run from with their twisted smiles and poisonous lies. No, but there are other perils lurking in this concrete jungle you’ve landed in, just as plentiful and just as dangerous.

One of the earliest lessons you learn is to run as soon as you see the flashing red and blue lights, as soon as the wailing siren splits the air, as far away as possible. No good ever comes from anyone in a uniform. 

The first time you see a man in blue smashing his fist into a younger man’s face, pinning him to the ground and screaming obscenities, striking him again and again and again, you can only stand and gap, frozen in place aways off. 

You pay for your fear and idiocy by being shoved against one of their wheel machines- a car, you later learn- and screamed at and questioned. Pride is a thing of the past, long since vanished. You keep your silence, playing deaf, playing dumb when they ask who you are? Where are your parents? Do you have identification?

If pays off. The men in pressed blue and shiny shoes leave you alone, stepping away for just a moment to converse. A moment is all you need. 

They shout and curse as they pursue you, bellowing threats but you make your escape, going deep, deep underground, losing yourself as thoroughly as you know how. Its many days before you feel safe enough to surface again. 

By the third time you see a constable hanging about a dimly lit street corner, leaning into the personal space of one of the many tired women clad in short shirts and high, high heels always loitering the street corners at night you don’t even hesitate. It’s shocking how easy it is to stand back and not interfere, to keep moving. After all, it wouldn’t do to not let them get a good look at you for fear of attracting attention. 

You think of Hordor and kissing boots and smirking soldiers and you bow your head against the cutting wind and keep on trudging. 

….

Night is the absolute worst of it. 

Fames flicker and spit inside the cracked, ancient garbage cans rusting under the Northern Jersey bridge you swat under. This place is far away from the bright lights and curious tourists; trash litters the cracked concrete streets and iron bars line shop doors and windows. 

A terrible area for outsiders maybe but a standard shelter for the many lost souls who haunt these streets. This, this is the location for the discarded, the destitute, and the desperate.

No one looks too closely at the others. It an unspoken rule to not pay attention to anyone else.

The brown paper bag does little to conceal the bottle clutched in your sweaty hand but you are past caring, quickly uncapping your prize and tipping it back for a long pull. The cheap liquor burns on its way down. Crouching against the hard, brick wall away from the fire, you stare into nothingness. You don’t want to feel. There’s nothing but cold and a yawning emptiness. You don’t want to think. There’s nothing but painful memories. 

More of this wonderful burning liquid is all you need right now. 

You think of taverns and strong ale and mocking laughter and take another, longer swig. 

….

Abandoned playgrounds and parks make for excellent places to snooze for an hour or so. There are colorful, plastic tubes to hide in, perfect shelters against both the elements and prying eyes. 

You are curled up inside a one such slide, its once bright cheerful color sprayed over with strange sayings and jargon you can’t begin to despiser or understand. Suddenly, the sound of muffled laughter reaches your ears. You jerk out of your restless sleep in an instant, oversensitive reflexes kicking into high gear. Poking your head out cautiously, you glance around the decayed and derelict park you previously thought deserted. 

A giggling boy in a bright yellow shirt perches on the ancient swings on the edge of the playground, pumping his legs enthusiastically. “Higher daddy, higher!” he cries wiggling. 

The tall, thin young man standing behind the child, holding the metal chains attached to the swing, chuckles and asks, “So you wanna go even higher today huh?” 

“Yeah! Really, really high daddy! I’m not afraid,” The boy bounces. 

“Oh, I don’t know…it’s a tall order. I think we can manage it though,” The father rubs his hands together. “Alright, you holding on tight now?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Hold on champ!” He pulls on the chains with a theatrical flair, shouting, “And…here…we…go!” before releasing the child. The boy shirks happily, twisting in his seat with excitement and pleasure. 

“Whoo hoo, look at you go!” The man in the hoodie raises his hands over his head and claps. 

You watch the happy father and son from afar. Your throat is hot and tight. Your eyes are dry. 

You ease out of the tube and slip away quietly. You don’t look back.

….

The only sickness on the Island of the Lost was that born of Dark Magic. Not so in this world. 

At first you are wary, untrusting of places that provide food and shelter for those without homes. Your time in the work houses weighs heavy on your mind.

Until a night comes that you don’t have a choice. A wracking couch has plagued you for weeks, mottling your mind, slowing you down. You don’t dare approach the places of healing- hospitals, you later learn. Too many questions, too many adults. It’s far too risky. But eventually the hunger pains are too much to bear. 

You need help. 

You line up with others living rough and in need of a hot meal, not quite daring to look anyone in the eye. In exchange you receive soup and bread and a warm place to stay for awhile. And it’s…okay. There are no questions. There is no talking. It’s…easy. It’s…nice. 

You come back later, eager for assistance. As you get into line outside you are well enough to take notice of the scowls, the glares directed your way. There is a condescending sneer on the faces of those driving by. People on the sidewalk step away from you, keeping their distance. You hear a quiet, “Christ, get a freaking job bums.”

They look at you the way others once looked at a cowering, frightened spinner. You want to scream, run, claw your own skin off. 

Perhaps Pan did not quite numb you to humiliation as well as you’d thought. 

It’s your last time there. 

….

She’s been on the streets a hell of a lot longer than you, that much is clear right off. She swaggers into your life, all sharp confidence and twirling switch knifes the day everything almost crashes down around you. 

It’s your own fault. You’re not paying attention, sitting in the warm library just trying to read a book. You don’t understand most of the words- a poor man’s son had very little need for much learning- but you struggle onwards. You think you are safe. 

You don’t see the other patrons looking at your ragged trousers and dirty face. You don’t hear the whispers of, “Should be in school?” You don’t see the hand slowly reaching for the phone. 

Suddenly a strange hand is grabbing yours. A young women has you by the arm, just as tattered as you, her severely short hair dyed to a blazing purple. She hisses, “Come on! If you’ve got any brains at all, you’ll come with me now!” She jerks her chin. “Move your ace, ace!” 

You look to where she’s pointing and don’t have to be a native of this land to recognize the concerned, doubtful looks being thrown your way. That look coming from grown ups is never, ever a good thing here. 

You leave with her. 

….

Her name is Charlie. It’s not her real name, you know that. It doesn’t matter. 

She wears scruffy sneakers and flannel shirts stolen off cloth lines. Tattoos decorate her arms and neck, completing the silver and gold piercings in her lips and ears. A tattered, black bomber jacket is her pride and joy. Gods pity the man who tried to take it from her. She slices his arm open with a boxcutter without batting an eye. 

You trail after this fiery, cold-blooded street girl like a puppy. You landed in this place- New Jersey- some time ago now, you don’t know exactly how long. You know how to scrape by here but there’s still so much you don’t understand and it’s nice to have someone at your side again. It’s nice to have someone to take the time to actually show you things, how they work. Even if deep down you know it won’t last. 

No one ever does.

Charlie shows you many things. Where to look for discarded food, who to avoid at all costs, how to hussle. 

Most importantly, Charlie helps you get an identification card, a treasure beyond compare here. A large chunk of your cash goes towards the tiny price but it’s so worth it. It’s a solid weight in your pocket, a reassurance that you have a name now, a place in this world. You also know that this small piece of plastic might be the key back to your freedom if you ever find yourself in a bind. 

You clutch it when you think no one else is looking, greedily reading it over and over and over. “Neal Cassidy,” you whisper, running your hands over the smooth surface. “Neal Cassidy,”

You learn how to play pool, how to slip a wallet how of a man’s pocket pretty as you please, how to target a venerable mark. You know how to scrap by in this world but Charlie shows you how to live and for a time, it makes all the difference. 

Yes, Charlie teaches you many, many things. Your final lesson comes in the middle of the night, on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. You are sound asleep when her arm snakes around you, slipping under your jacket. You wake up with her hand shoved down your pants. 

While you jerk about in a muddled shock, she leans over and whispers in your ear, “Hey, hey. Shush. I’ll make it good for you,” and puts her mouth on yours. 

‘True loves kiss,’ you think wildly. That’s what everyone talked about, gathering behind the stacks of hay in the field, gossiping and giggling. About how that’s what you want. About how that’s what your first kiss is supposed to be, like warmth and starlight and magic. 

This doesn’t feel like magic. It’s wet and rough and harsh, Charlie pulling at you to bring you closer, hands everywhere. She swings her legs over your body to hover over you, pushing down. Panic blooms in your chest. 

Then she pulls at you, running her fingernails along and you gasp, seeing stars.

It does feel good, you guess. And, gods do you want to feel good, just for a little while…

It’s shockingly quick, Charlie doing all the work, grinding down on you. You gasp and grunt, pawing at her trying to hang on but then she throws her head back and twists down shaking and you lose it, shaking and crying out under Charlie’s hand covering your open mouth.

You’re still shaking when Charlie flops down next to you and yawns. “Thanks. I needed that,” and rolls over, going back to sleep. 

You lie there cold and wet and aching, staring into the darkness. The next day you part ways. Charlie just shrugs, shoulders her pack and says, “Your choice ace,”

You turn and walk away. If feels oddly satisfying to be the first one to leave for once. 

….  
There are other, more powerful ways to lose yourself than in a bottle- yet another thing Charlie taught you. 

Wonderful, white powder that wishes your memories away, pills nicked from hospitals, and so many others. You gladly slip suppliers on street corners wad after wad of cash in exchange for sweet oblivion. You drift along, pretending you aren’t struggling, pretending you aren’t so alone, so damaged.

One night you are sprawled out on a bench in the middle of nowhere, flying high when you see a gentle, kind spinner walking towards you. 

You reach out trying to speak trying to form words but they keep slipping away from you. You try to roll over, stumble towards toward him but you can’t move and he can’t see you. He walks away, oblivious to your cries of, “Pa…pa…please! Please!”

You wake up with tears on your face for the first time in centuries. 

The drugs don’t pull at you the same way after that and you are careful to steer clear of temptation, avoiding certain people and corners. 

And in the dead of night, when your chest feels so empty and cold your can hardly stand it, when you don’t think you can stand the crushing despair and emptiness another day, a sharp blade across your forearm works almost as well as any hit. 

….

You leave New Jersey’s twinkling lights behind. Too many people, dealers know you, know your haunts, the places you bed down and they are looking for you. Or more importantly, the cash you don’t have. 

You curl up in empty train cars and hitch rides when they come along. You steal what you can, dig through garbage cans when you are desperate. It’s nothing new. 

What is new is the lack of haunts and fallbacks. You have to keep moving. Smaller towns are far less accepting of homelessness and it doesn’t do to attract unwanted attention. 

Truck drivers are the most accommodating toward your attempts to hitchhike and slowly, surely, you make your way west, curled up in the passenger seat of semis as you watch rolling hills and cornfields wiz by. You have no purpose, no destination. Anywhere will do. 

And when some drivers reach over and put their hands on your knee, slowly sliding their way upwards? Well, it’s hardly the first time you’ve sat back and let someone touch you isn’t it? 

So you sit or lay back and think about the plains rolling by, ignoring what’s happening to your body. It’s only afterward that you allow yourself to feel, taking it out on your forearms until they are nothing but bloody stripes. You bind them, hiding the scars both inside and out and move on to the next ride. 

….

When you lay eyes on the yellow bug for the first time, it feels like the air has been knocked out of your lungs. ‘Yes,’ it seems to whisper, ‘Yes, this is it. This is right. This is home,’ 

You don’t think twice. A screwdriver opens the door for you and you slide home. You’ve watched enough greasy truckers to figure out what to do. You drive off into the night, trying to get as far away as possible, riding a high that for once has nothing to do with drugs or pain. 

It’s damn good to have wheels of your own. You don’t think about whoever you stole it from. You don’t have to let anyone touch you again and you’re willing to do far worse than pinch a car for that freedom.

….

“Can you tell me how to get home? I don’t know how to get there,” 

You sit hunched over on the park bench. The playground was very quiet and you were only searching for a moment of peace and rest after a long night. Instead you found a bewildered old man wandering about in what looks like his pajamas. He is thin and frail, tottering along the sidewalk and into the grassy play area in confusion. 

“Excuse me. Please can someone help me?” 

The grey haired man shuffles along in worn slippers, seemingly begging the empty air for aid. His eyes are huge behind his round glasses and he clutches his newspaper close to his chest as he wanders along. 

You see a young women pulling near the edge of the playground pull out a phone and know you should vacate immediately before emergency services arrive. But you can’t seem to pull your eyes away from the lost old man now standing near the sand box, turning in confused circles as tears slowly roll down his face. 

“Please. Please. I’m lost. I don’t know how to get home,”

You close your eyes, unable to move, the every present aching emptiness rising up to choke you. You don’t blame the man for his tears. 

It’s a terrifying feeling, not knowing who you are anymore.


End file.
